


Extenuating Circumstances

by prosodiical



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale and Crowley Through The Ages (Good Omens), Forbidden Love, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-18 03:03:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20632037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: or: Four times Aziraphale and Crowley were caught by sex pollen, and one time they didn't have to be.The first time it happens is an accident. They can pretend the next times are, too.





	Extenuating Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meilan_Firaga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/gifts).

> I saw your requested tags (particularly _Sex Pollen Affects Mutually Pining Characters_ and _Sex pollen causes forbidden desire to be consummated_) and couldn't help immediately thinking: wow, if a mutually pining Aziraphale/Crowley could excuse normally-forbidden sex via sex pollen, I bet they'd take advantage of that loophole.
> 
> Any historical inaccuracies are my own. Anyway, I hope you like this!

1.

The first time it happens neither of them are expecting it. The now-routine push-pull of thwarting and temptation, blessings and curses has led to the newer routine of sharing wine by the amphora wherever they've holed up for the time. This night the air is clear and the sky deep and dark and they pour the wine into skins when they head outside, Aziraphale giggling drunkenly as he resists Crawley's attempts at tempting him to steal too-young fruit from the orchards, even as he partakes of offerings of grapes plucked by Crawley's hand. In theory, they're trying to find a field to star-watch: "I," Crawley said with a flourish, "made all the best ones, come on, I'll show you."

"It's not against the rules for you," Crawley is saying now, waving his wine-skin, the faint moonlight shining on his hair and casting him in bright greys and dark shadows, fading his brilliant yellow eyes. "You can eat whatever you want to."

"I couldn't," Aziraphale says, laughing, "because it's stealing, which is - is _wrong_, however many times you say it - "

He doesn't trip, but only because Crawley catches him, a hand tight on his elbow and his smile sweet as the ripening grapes around them. "Silly angel," he says, "watch your feet."

"I'm watching yours," Aziraphale says contrarily. Crawley only occasionally puts on the effort of shoes and this time he hasn't, smooth scales instead of leather covering his attempts at feet, a black that soaks up the light. "You're the one who, who trips. All the time!"

"'m not the one tripping now," Crawley says, and tugs him; Aziraphale stumbles, then rights himself, then goes back to drunkenly arguing with Crawley over proper angelic behaviour, just as a proper angel would do.

Soon the vineyards give over to shrubbery, lush fields to less-ideal hills where more space is given to simple grass. The pollen of the flowering shrubs still lies heavy in the air, the heat making it linger as the evening breeze stirs it up, and when Crawley wrinkles his nose and sneezes mid-way through a point on coveting Aziraphale can't help the way he laughs. "I mean, haven't you ever," Crawley starts, and sneezes again, and then his half-hearted shove at Aziraphale sends them falling over each other. Aziraphale lands bodily on the ground cushioned only by expectation, and Crawley lands on top of him, the ungainly weight of him removing all the breath from Aziraphale's lungs.

Aziraphale's heart stutters at the sight of him, usually-thin pupils dilated oval, yellow-gold irises spreading to overtake his eyes. His red hair is crimson in the light, haloed by the moon, and Aziraphale's gaze catches on silly, irrelevant things: the sinuous curve of his neck, the way his darting tongue leaves his lips moist and glistening, stained dark with wine. Aziraphale wants to taste him, the body underneath the spices of wine and the sugar of grapes; he wants to try the sweat of his skin and the heat of his breath and the fire in his mouth. He can't stop looking at the indecent gape of Crawley's ketonet, drape loosened and falling from his shoulders, exposing the jut of his collarbones and a near-endless expanse of pale skin.

"Oh," says Aziraphale, who abruptly knows what it means to covet. "Crawley…"

"Angel," Crawley says, his loosened hair hiding their faces as he leans down, nose bumping Aziraphale's, as he shifts and his simlah parts like a curtain to hide their bodies from the sky. When Crawley kisses him, Aziraphale drinks in the taste of him, of their terrible wine made palatable with spices and the alcohol that lingers on his tongue. Crawley kisses him thoroughly, his hands sliding up Aziraphale's legs as he loosens his ketonet, the warmth of his hands nearly burning. Aziraphale presses into that heat, pulling him closer as Crawley's hips push forward, his cock hot and silken against Aziraphale's bare thighs. Soon there's nothing but base desire left in Aziraphale's mind, the heated throb of his cock and the urge to rut against him overwhelming any clarity of thought; Crawley's cock slides against his, his hand closing around them both, and Aziraphale forgets to breathe as pleasure crashes through him, a wave against a shore.

Crawley thrusts into his own hand and comes over Aziraphale's belly, eyes wide open and breath coming short. Aziraphale's arousal hasn't faded though the urgency of earlier simmers low, and he reaches up to tug at Crawley's hair and kiss him again, his eyes and his nose and his soft, pliant mouth. "Angel," Crawley says, voice low and throaty, "Azssiraphale. We don't have to - "

"Please," Aziraphale says. He spreads his legs and draws Crawley down, kisses his sharp cheekbones and the snake before his ear. His voice cracks with need. His body aches with it. "Please."

Crawley's eyelashes flutter as he turns his head, catching Aziraphale's mouth with his own. "Yeah," he says when he pulls back, his eyes yellow and dazed, and then he slowly, reverently, takes Aziraphale apart.

They part before the night is over, after the clouds blow overhead and the sweetness of the air leaves the grass. Aziraphale aches all over in the most satisfying way, but when he catches Crawley's eyes he knows there's nothing to be done. "I'm sorry," Aziraphale says, quietly, thoroughly sincere. "We can't do this."

"Yeah, I know." Crawley's eyes crinkle with his faint smile. "Extenuating circumstances and all. We were both caught up."

Aziraphale reaches out and clasps Crawley's hands. "Yes," he says, and after a breath of a moment, lets him go. "It couldn't be helped. Mind how you go."

2.

It doesn't happen the next time he sees Crawley, or the time after that. It takes nearly a millennium before Aziraphale can look at him without openly coveting him the way no good angel should, before the warmth in his chest at the thought of him becomes commonplace, a feeling able to be endured. He can't stop knowing how Crawley feels either, though he's an expert at hiding the wound, and they part each time touching only as much as two acquaintances should.

And then Aziraphale finds him dressed as an _hetaera_ at a symposium, a gauzy silk chiton barely obscuring his pale skin as he socialises, entertaining and brightening the entire room. Crawley spots him immediately and gives him a long, lingering once-over, and Aziraphale fiddles with the hem of his himation, feeling suddenly far too warm.

After Crawley makes his excuses he turns to Aziraphale for company, stealing a sip of his wine before he leans in, invitingly close. "You'll never guess what I found."

"Hello," Aziraphale says, amused, "it's good to see you."

"Yeah, yeah," Crawley says, grinning slyly, "now tell me how good I look, I'm waiting. No, seriously, you'll like this. Drinks later?"

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows. "Tempting me already, old serpent?"

"Tempting," Crawley says, cajoling, "or offering? Can't thwart my wiles if you stay at home."

"Do you have a home here?" Aziraphale wonders, and they fall smoothly into catching up, discussion of the benefits and complications of Athenian living and both of their current projects while Crawley plies him with tragemata and more wine. The envy he incites Aziraphale can do little to smooth over, demonically reinforced as it is, but as the symposium becomes increasingly rowdy with drunken cheer Aziraphale does reach to the balance of the room, soothing a few tempers and preventing unseemly brawls before they start.

"I can't take you anywhere, angel," Crawley says, though he sounds more fond than annoyed. "Let's get out of here before you undo all my hard work."

"And here I thought you were asking for me to thwart you," Aziraphale says primly, repressing his smile, and finishes his watered-down wine and the last of the dried fruit with a pleased little sigh. Crawley's trying and failing to look offended, his amusement clearly shining through, and Aziraphale lets himself take Crawley's arm when he offers it. His skin is warm under Aziraphale's palm. "Very well. The victory is yours, you fiend."

"Oh," says Crawley, leaning in until his breath is hot on Aziraphale's ear, "and whatever will I do with you?"

"Take me home, I expect," Aziraphale says, and Crawley laughs as they leave the symposium for the crisp Athenian night.

It's quieter but not quiet, a city gentled in the light of braziers and lamps. The heat of the day has largely escaped to the clear open sky and Aziraphale finds himself entranced with sneaking glances at Crawley, at his beautiful red hair cascading down his shoulders, at the way the silk of his chiton drapes over his collarbones and breasts. He's stunning like this, dressed to devastating effect and gracing Aziraphale with his smiles and attention, and as Crawley tells him of the trouble he stirred up in Sparta Aziraphale abruptly wishes he could capture this moment forever, to keep it glittering and still beautiful like a rare shard of broken glass.

Crawley turns to him expectantly, likely anticipating Aziraphale's pretend censure or his secretly amused smile. Instead Aziraphale says, sincerely, "I'm so glad I ran into you today."

Crawley makes a vague, choked noise and looks away, clearing his throat. "Don't be stupid," he says, "who ran into who? Maybe I was the one who found you, or it's all just - coincidence. Compounding choices. Infernal chance. Here, it's this way."

He bustles Aziraphale into his current home, and as he lights an oil lamp Aziraphale looks around. Crawley doesn't keep things like Aziraphale does, with his stacks of scrolls and parchment, but there are a few keepsakes under the trappings of a human life: old pottery, a scratched amulet, a handful of carved figurines. Crawley disappears into another room while Aziraphale takes to a stool, and comes back wielding an amphora like a gift he doesn't know how to offer.

"I had a thought," he says. Even from his seat Aziraphale can smell the honey-richness of mead, golden in the flickering lamplight when he pours some. Crawley is darting odd, unreadable glances at him as he does, his earlier jubilation at sharing faded into something uncertain, like the hesitation in his hands when he offers Aziraphale the cup. Aziraphale takes it from his hands, breathes it in as he closes his eyes, and at the very first sip knows exactly why.

"You know," Crawley's saying, a little quickly, "we don't have to - you don't have to. But I ran into some honey and, actually, this was a terrible idea - "

The mead tastes sweet and floral and sharply familiar. Aziraphale will never be able to dissociate it from the taste of Crawley's skin, from fresh grapes and spiced wine. He looks at Crawley, his shaded eyes and the worried downturn of his mouth, and deliberately lifts his cup to take another sip. "I think," Aziraphale says, carefully, "at the symposium, you poisoned me. And then - "

"I took advantage?" Crawley's mouth lifts at the corners. "Is that how you want to play this?"

Aziraphale gives him a sly look through lowered eyelashes. "Or I successfully thwarted you by interfering with your poison, so you drank of it yourself - a rather disappointing failure on both sides."

"You tempter, you," Crawley says, and Aziraphale tries to feel offended and fails with the heat seeping through him, molasses-slow and sweet as the mead with which he refills his cup. "Oh, give that here - "

Crawley snatches it from his hand and, nose crinkled, downs the cup in a gulp. He's never been as fond of sweets as Aziraphale, but this may well be the exception to his general rule. Just as Aziraphale can entice him to steal off his plate, Crawley looks pleased to be able to take his own gift from Aziraphale's hand, and when he pours another he takes a sip before offering Aziraphale the rest of the cup.

He is beautiful, and Aziraphale is becoming slowly dazed with the want of it. "It appears," Aziraphale says, "that you've well and truly caught me." He wants to push the loose himation off Crawley's shoulders, to loosen the belt of his chiton. He accomplishes the first to Crawley's laugh, bubbling up and far too full of delight, and Crawley interrupts the second by kissing him, saturated with honey-wine. Aziraphale loses all sense for a long moment as the heat of his need teeters over the edge of overwhelming and finds himself reaching to kiss the skin of Crawley's breasts, to touch the wetness between his thighs; he says, "What will you do with me?" thoughtless with desire, and Crawley takes his wrist and guides his fingers, pressing them to the moist heat inside him.

"Whatever you want, angel," Crawley says. Aziraphale shouldn't believe him so easily, so unconditionally, but he does.

He can have this, at least for tonight.

3.

Aziraphale can admit he's surprised to see Crowley so soon after the way they parted last, an argument that is still sending fear skittering down his spine. "Don't tell me," Aziraphale says sharply, as soon as he notices his squire has been replaced by a suspiciously tall, red-headed alternative, "you want me to stop, we're cancelling each other out, oh, why not throw a spot of treason into the mix - "

"For Go - Sa - _fuck's_ sake," Crowley snaps, "maybe I just wanted to see you, angel, is that all right?"

He sounds so frustrated, and when his hand brushes Aziraphale's skin, he is suffused with such love. Aziraphale knows he's being manipulated but he still can't help the way the knot of anger in his chest softens. He swallows and says, quieter, "Yes. I'm sorry."

Crowley's mouth twists further. He sets Aziraphale's gauntlets aside, and starts on his cuirass. "Don't apologise to me."

His touch is more gentle than efficient, and it makes Aziraphale's resolve crumble. He looks away, so he doesn't have to face Crowley's piercing gaze. "Shouldn't you be... fomenting?"

"I am," Crowley says, and then adds, quickly, "I mean. Not you. Just. Stir up some trouble, get a reputation, and it doesn't matter who's inside the armour, does it?"

"Humans tempting humans," Aziraphale says. Crowley glances at him, sidelong, and takes the gambeson Aziraphale is pleased to lose from his shoulders.

"It's humans inspiring humans," Crowley says, "on both our sides. Are you free tonight?"

Aziraphale purses his lips and nods. "Would you join me for supper? I usually take it alone."

Aziraphale's tent is miraculously free of the permeating damp, but it would be far too frivolous to justify a slightly better meal than what he's packed for travelling rations. Bread and cheese and wine might be customary but it's barely edible and barely hospitable, what with the travel and the awful weather that's set the drizzly fog into everything down to his very bones. 

Crowley, of course, looks impeccable when he slips into Aziraphale's tent, letting the flap fall closed behind him. Aziraphale tries not to fret but he can't hide it entirely, at least until Crowley offers him succour and insults the quality of the wine he serves.

It isn't quite as easy for Aziraphale to let it go but he unwinds in increments, until his thoughts are more on the way moisture has curled Crowley's hair than the worry of them both getting caught. Crowley pulls a face when he tries some of the bread and miracles it fresh and warm enough to make Aziraphale's mouth water, and he thinks of drizzling it with honey over figs, with butter and blackberry jam. 

Ever indulgent, Crowley says, "Go on, then," when he mentions it, and offers him delectable little pots, more fit for royalty than Aziraphale's rather soggy self. "Chase away the damp a bit."

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says, biting his lip, starting to feel quite awful. "You really shouldn't, I..."

"'s not like anyone keeps track of my miracles," Crowley says. "Not like yours. If no one saw me, I'm not even here."

Aziraphale sighs and takes the bread, and the butter, and the jam. The crust on the bread is thick and crunchy, the toppings rich and sweet. "Thank you," he says, and when Crowley starts to protest, "no, truly. Perhaps I - shouldn't have been so short with you. It's just…"

He can't even voice the fears that have rooted themselves in his mind. It's like the first time they came together, under the sky and open to anyone who could stop by; it's one thing to be polite to a demon, for an angel, it's one thing to love him as a being created to love; it's entirely another for a demon to have affection for an angel, to possess that angel's own heart.

"Aziraphale," Crowley says, gently, "stop worrying so much."

He offers a cracked-off piece of bread, his fingers sticky with fig juice and honey, and Aziraphale takes it and takes a bite. The flavour doesn't register immediately, Aziraphale's gaze caught on the way Crowley brings his thumb to his mouth, and then Crowley's eyes widen. "Ah, shit, angel, don't - "

Aziraphale blinks, and the warmth of his mouthful fills him from the inside out. "Oh."

"Didn't mean to," Crowley says, looking a little wild around the eyes. "I don't, er, eat much. Just miracled it up from my stores, I kind of forgot - "

Crowley's fingers are glistening, his thumb wet with saliva, and he falls silent the moment Aziraphale catches his wrist and brings Crowley's hand to his mouth. His fingers taste like skin and sweat and honey and figs and Aziraphale licks along the creases of his palm, chasing the taste of him with his tongue. "Fuck," Crowley hisses, heartfelt, as Aziraphale sucks at his fingers, and Aziraphale glances up to see his slack, trembling mouth, his lovely irises flooding his eyes.

"You're so good to me," Aziraphale says, stricken uncertain with how very much he wants. He closes his eyes, presses his lips to Crowley's fingers, his wrist, his palm. "I - I couldn't bear it if you were gone."

"Oh, _angel_," Crowley says, and draws him close, kissing the honey from his mouth and tongue. "I won't be."

"You're not even here," Aziraphale says, remembering, his brain liquid and slow, and Crowley kisses him again as Aziraphale grasps for him, and his tunic, and the warm dry skin he knows lies beneath. He makes a sound of triumph when he manages it, relieving Crowley of cloth and mussing his hair irreparably, and Crowley grins.

"I'm not even here," Crowley agrees, and miraculously finds Aziraphale's bedroll as Aziraphale pushes him down. He's so brilliant, and so beautiful, and he smiles when Aziraphale tells him so. "Azssiraphale," he says, laughing, "you're ssso drunk."

His tongue flicks out, like a snake tasting Aziraphale's skin, and he wraps his limbs around Aziraphale like a snake seeking warmth. "You poor serpent," Aziraphale says, "all this cold must be awful," and kisses him thoroughly. By the time he's done Crowley's cock is as hard as his own and Aziraphale has quite forgotten what he wants with it. "Oh! Might you fuck me?"

"'coursse," Crowley says, sibilants slipping over his tongue until Aziraphale kisses them off him, and then, as indulgent as ever, he does.

The warmth leaves him slowly, like Crowley unwinding himself from the sinuous pile of limbs they've constructed. Aziraphale reaches out for him, and then stops himself, reason intruding as he realises he can't. "'s fine, angel," Crowley says, "I knew it was a long shot. I'll still keep in touch." 

"Just," Aziraphale says. His voice sticks in his throat. "I - I'll think about it. Be _careful_, Crowley."

"I'm always careful," Crowley says, in an obvious, placating lie. He brushes kisses against Aziraphale's eyelids and mouth, then heads for the tent flap. "You be careful, too."

"I'm always careful," Aziraphale says, only slightly more truthful, and Crowley huffs a rueful laugh.

"Guess I deserve that. Let's hope next time won't be this damp."

"Mind how you go, my dear," Aziraphale offers for lack of anything else to say, and knows he'll be sustaining his mood for years on the flash of Crowley's rare, unguardedly fond smile.

4.

Aziraphale likes London. He might even say he loves it, a love a fraction more fond than the love he feels for the rest of the world, the same way he feels for snuffboxes and sushi and crêpes. But unlike those things, London often taxes his patience, leaving him with a feeling far more suited to the demon who is currently sprawled, boneless, on the floor.

At least he appears largely unharmed. If he wasn't, Aziraphale doesn't know what he would do, but he has the feeling it would be less angelic than he would like.

Aziraphale clears his throat. "And you… summoned this creature. With a spell. From that book."

"It has to do everything I say," says the odious book-collector rifling through his desk. "Though it's remarkably resistant to questioning. I have managed to extract the recipe for a poison from it, and improved on it - and with your occult contacts, Mr Fell, I thought we might be able to work together..."

He turns, brandishing a vial. Crowley jumps to his feet. They all watch as it falls to the wooden floor, glass cracking, liquid spilling out - 

The scent hits Aziraphale like a flood; he can't stop the breath he takes in, nor the gasp he lets out. The man turns to Crowley, and Crowley turns to Aziraphale, a flush already high on his face, clutching his thighs to stay upright: "The circle - !"

It's not something Aziraphale can miracle away and he stumbles over, trying to stop himself from breathing. He doesn't need it but his brain feels like it's melting out of his ears, his corporation too small, his skin too tight. The chalk line on the floor yields under his shoe and he distantly registers the human's widened eyes as he backs away, scrabbling for his pistol -

"Sleep," Aziraphale says, and his voice comes out far too loud, the force of it reverberating in his skull. The human collapses to the floor and Aziraphale can't even think of the justifications he'll have to give when Crowley is right there, clutching at his sleeve as he clears the damaged circle, as they catch each other's eyes. Crowley sways forward, then pulls himself back; his fingers dig into Aziraphale's coat like claws as he hisses through his teeth, narrowing his eyes at the unconscious human on the floor until he disappears.

Aziraphale says, uselessly, "Crowley."

"Shit," Crowley is saying, "fuck. I thought - thought it'd be a bit of a laugh," and he uncurls his fingers from Aziraphale's clothing with a self-possession Aziraphale doesn't possess himself. Aziraphale's hands fist in Crowley's loose collar just to keep him there, and Crowley leans in until their noses bump and says, "Aziraphale…"

"Please," Aziraphale says, desperately hard and absolutely stupid with it, none of his thoughts straying from the magnetic idea of Crowley's mouth and Crowley's touch and Crowley's cock. He lifts his head and their mouths press together, dry and strangely chaste until Crowley groans and shoves him, hard.

Aziraphale's breath is knocked out of him. His knees catch on a mattress and silk sheets and Crowley pushes him back, hands on bare shoulders, because Aziraphale's clothes are entirely gone. Aziraphale reaches for Crowley, winding his fingers in his regrettably short hair as Crowley kisses him with intent, with purpose, with his knee slotted between Aziraphale's legs so Aziraphale can thrust up into him and relieve some of the burning, empty want that's overwhelmed his mind.

Crowley's hissing something, practically incoherent, as he sinks down on Aziraphale's cock. He's slick and tight and so, so hot and Aziraphale kisses his collarbones and the curve of his shoulder, the line of his neck and his red, wanting mouth. Crowley nips at his lip and sucks on his tongue and fucks himself on Aziraphale's cock like he's made for it, meeting Aziraphale's thrusts and swallowing down blasphemy before it can leave Aziraphale's mouth. "Angel, _angel_," he's saying, breathing it out like a prayer and Aziraphale wants him closer, wants him entirely, and mindlessly reaches out --

He sees fire and shadow and stars. It lasts forever; it lasts for no time at all, and then they're breaking apart.

Crowley's staring at him, eyes wide and stunned. The heat in Aziraphale's blood feels muted somehow, tied to his corporality in a way he can suddenly pick apart. Then reality crashes into him; that he reached with more than the physical, that he tried to _entwine_ \- Aziraphale's no doubt flushed already, but embarrassment sends blood to his face as he avoids Crowley's eyes. 

"Azssiraphale," Crowley starts, "that wass - "

"Please don't," Aziraphale says, weakly. His voice feels shaky, stuck in his chest like the air in his lungs. "We don't - we don't talk about it. We don't talk about this."

"Maybe we should," Crowley says, leaning forward. Aziraphale's softening cock slips from him, his come trailing down Crowley's lovely thighs. Aziraphale wants to taste it, wants to eat him open until he's writhing, and nothing is driving the thought except Aziraphale's own desire. "Angel…"

"We can't," Aziraphale says. Crowley's heart is too soft, his love too improbably large. "You know we can't." Slowly he pulls back, drawing away. "It's too dangerous. If anyone found out - "

"What's another clause to the Arrangement, really?" Crowley asks, but Aziraphale can see the awful creeping resignation in his eyes. Aziraphale kisses him, then, Crowley's mouth slack for too long a moment before he kisses back, slow and lingering and far too careful for Aziraphale's traitorous heart. "Right."

"I'm sorry," Aziraphale says. "I…"

"We don't talk about it, do we?" Crowley says, but his voice is gentle even as his words cut sharp. "Tally it up for the list." He drops to his feet and snaps his fingers, turning the bed into firmament and creating Aziraphale's lost clothing from the same stardust. "And… thanks for the rescue. Guess I owe you one."

Aziraphale unfolds his coat from the pile, running his fingertips against the seams. He can't look up. "We'll count it for Paris."

Crowley's voice firms. "I think you're still up one."

"Oh, I don't know…" Aziraphale finally looks up, just in time to catch Crowley's descending mouth. He kisses Aziraphale hard and fast, leaving him feeling bereft the moment Crowley pulls away, wordless in the face of Crowley's accomplished smirk. "Crowley!"

"What? Thought we weren't ever going to - "

"You know why," Aziraphale says, as steadily as he can. "Please, Crowley. Not this. I can't."

Aziraphale can't see his eyes behind his glasses, but Crowley's mouth softens at the corners, free from its hard lines. "Yeah, all right. Guess I'd better clean up."

He leaves Aziraphale to get dressed in peace. Aziraphale doesn't know what to want.

+1. 

The end of the world has come and gone, and Aziraphale hasn't let Crowley go since the moment he took his hand on the bus. He's reluctant to even when they reach Crowley's flat, when Crowley, too tired for keys, miracles open his own door, but he drops it when they're inside, if only to clean up the holy water puddle on Crowley's floor. 

Then they fall on each other, desperately, without any excuses to mask it. Crowley kisses him like he's drowning and Aziraphale's flush with similar urgency, and by the time the sun dawns they're both thoroughly exhausted out. Aziraphale says, "I love you," there, to the sun's rising light. 

Crowley presses his lips to Aziraphale's temple. "I know. I think I figured that prophecy out."

They'll survive, in the end. They can't fail, not now.


End file.
